


That's Me Loving You

by KillHitlerAgain



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dreams, Gen, God's Plan, Gratuitous Descriptions of Indescribable Things, Love, Other, Plotbunnies, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 07:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillHitlerAgain/pseuds/KillHitlerAgain
Summary: Crowley doesn't usually dream. But tonight, he does. And he gets an answer to a question he desperately wanted to ask. (Too bad he doesn't remember when he wakes up.)





	That's Me Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this from mobile so if the formatting is fucked up that's why.
> 
> Anyway, this idea came to me in the middle of the night and I couldn't sleep till I wrote it down. It has been edited though, so it's not just my late night ramblings.
> 
> Thank you to GinAndShatteredDreams for beta reading.

Crowley did not dream very often. He could, if he so desired to. But he usually didn't. There was no telling what ideas his unconscious mind would bring to the surface, and it just seemed counterintuitive, really; He slept to get away from his thoughts, not to become more deeply immersed in them.

But that night, he did dream. A dream he wasn't sure whether or not he chose to have.

He sat on his knees, staring at the sky, in a place that was comfortable. It could only be described as comfortable. It was a place that was felt, not seen, and that feeling was the one that settled in the deepest, most secure corner of your mind.

Up ahead of him there was a figure among the colors. Much like how the place could only be described as comfortable, the figure could only be described as 'a figure', at least in objective terms. If you turned off all of your higher brain functions and just looked directly at it, you might see a vaguely humanoid shape made entirely out of golden light. This, however, would be no more accurate a description than to describe a fourth dimensional hyper-cube as a regular cube that simply kept growing and shrinking out of existence.

Despite the ambiguity of its physical form, Crowley knew what this figure was. He knew what it was in the way one knew how to think, how to exist. It wasn't simply instinct, it was even more essential than that. It was embedded in the very definition of what he was.

The figure turned to face him. (Or, at least, it seemed to in the way that it didn't actually but you knew it did anyway.) His heart filled with a myriad of emotions, many of them contradictory: Fear, comfort, confusion, knowing. But he eventually settled on one.

"Why are you here?" He questioned, his voice cold and solid. The anger he had intended to undertone the question seemed to waver, as if it was struggling not to break away into something more vulnerable.

"I am everywhere, Crowley." The voice belonged to the figure, but did not come from it. It was instead everywhere around the demon, while at the same time, seemingly coming from inside his own head.

"You, of all beings, should know that.*"

*[It was not that Crowley, specifically, should know this. It was not a comment on him as an individual, but instead simply a reminder that he was of the sort of being, whether he liked it or not, that should know such to be true.

Crowley, of course, being incredibly familiar with what it is that he is, being that he is, of course, himself, found this sort of remark unnecessary and pedantic.]

"Yeah, no, I get. I mean what are you doing  _ here _ ." Crowley threw up his arms and gestured around in an annoyed sort of manner. "In my dream."

"I think you would know the answer to that better than me."

That, of course, was a lie. No person, place, or thing could possibly know the answer to anything better than it could. That was sort of it's whole business.

Crowley, knowing this, mocked to himself inside his head (Not his real head, which he was currently in, but the head attached to the version of himself inside the dream), and rolled his eyes inside his head (Also the head attached to the version of himself inside the dream, but since the head attached to the version of himself inside his dream had eye sockets, it would have been visible to anyone or anything else in the dream with him. And he really hoped it was.)

The voice spoke again.

"You want something from me." It said, as if that was the only reason it would ever be there in the first place, and even then, against its own will*.

*[While whether or not the former statement is true is up to debate, the latter statement is, of course, not accurate in the slightest.]

Crowley rested his head on his chin and began to ponder to himself in an exaggerated fashion. He didn't want something from it. Actually, that wasn't true. He wanted something from it, he just didn't want to want something from it.

But he knew that despite that, he still did. There was something he wanted very much, actually, if it would give it to him. And he knew that no matter how much he tried to give the impression he didn't, it would know. So, really, there was nothing to lose.

Crowley then began to ponder himself in a very real, not just for show, fashion, before looking back up and crossing his arms.

"Can I ask you a question?" He raised an eyebrow. Even something as simple as asking a question was walking on thin ice around it. He would know.

"I suppose you can."

Crowley felt this reply as if it was a taunt from a grade school teacher chiding him for incorrect grammar. He'd never been to school, of course, but he heard what humans said about it: 'I don't know, can you?' when asked if they could use the restroom.

"Why did I Fall?" He tried to seem casual and indifferent, like the answer wasn't actually all that important to him. But, his voice was quieter, and more feeble than he had wanted, and the words had cracked on their way out.

He cursed, no, blessed to himself.

The figure, despite not having a mouth, seemed to smile at him the way one might smile at a child after explaining for a third time a simple concept you thought would only take one explanation to catch on.

"You made your choice, Crowley. I simply let you make it. We both know you were not happy in Heaven." It said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'm not very happy in Hell, either. It's not exactly 'The Happiest Place on Earth'*" He replied, shrugging his shoulders.

*[The place he was referring to was not Disneyland (Which was actually number 23 on the list of the unhappiest places on Earth, just slightly lower than a Black Friday sale at a Target in a middle class white neighborhood), but instead a small forest clearing in Sweden where you could get away from things for awhile and enjoy a nice camping trip next to a babbling brook.]

Crowley thought he could sense a giggle, but decided he must be going crazy.

"Yes. But Hell's not on Earth, now is it? But you are. And we both know how much you enjoy it there."

Crowley considered this for a moment. 

"So, what you're saying is..." He trailed off and looked up at the figure expentently.

It didn't finish his sentence. It simply stood there, radiating the energy of one who is proud that their troubled pupil has finally begun to understand the lesson.

"...That you meant for all of this to happen this way?" Crowley finished his sentence himself.

It made sense, he supposed. He knew that at least some part of it had to be intentional, there was no way someone that powerful just let things get out of hand the way it did. It had to have been allowed to happen.

"But, let me get this straight,'' the demon began once again, "You're acting like all of this was done intentionally to make things better for me, at least in part."

"Yes?" It wasn't an affirmative, but a push to keep going.

"But if that's the case then, why..."

Crowley's face hardened, and he seemed as if he was someone being interrogated that had just realized that the past couple lines of conversation had all just been an effort to make him let his guard down, and distract from the real, important issue.

"Then why don't you love me?" His entire demeanor had changed. The casual, yet defensive, devil-may-care attitude he had had at the beginning of the conversation was gone completely, and had been replaced with a vulnerability that seemed a single breath away from giving away completely.

The figure reached out and cradled each side of his face with hands made of pure light. He tried half-heartedly to pull away, but found he couldn't bring himself to, and so instead turned his face towards one side and stared off into nothing.

"What makes you think I don't love you, Crowley?" The voice was calm, yet solid. If he didn't know better, he'd had thought it sounded offended.

He didn't want to cry. He wasn't crying. It was the sting of the celestial radiance on his face, that was all.

"'Cause I can't feel it anymore." God's love was supposed to be all consuming, wasn't it? He hadn't completely forgotten what it was like to be an angel, after all.

The question that came next was both the quietest question he had ever been asked, and also the loudest.

"Do you not feel loved, Crowley?"

He didn't know how to answer that. How could he? Six thousand years ago, maybe, but now the answer was so complicated he didn't know what to think. He knew he didn't feel loved by the being in front of him, at least. But something inside him told him that that wasn't quite what the question meant.

"I sent you an angel, Crowley. My kindest, most caring angel. And I gave him the power to love you more than anything else in the heavens or on Earth."

"What does that matter?" He said, mostly to himself. "The only reason he makes me happy is because he went against what  _ you _ wanted in the first place." Unless, of course...

A realization hit him, one that made his toes curl and his face heat up.

"You made him love me?" He accused, looking up quickly. But after a moment, he considered whether or not it even made a difference. He flinched at that and immediately told himself that was a stupid considerstion. Of course it mattered. It was just pity otherwise, and it had taken him awhile to convince himself it wasn't that in the first place.

"No." The reply was powerful and matter-of-fact. "He made that choice on his own. I simply gave him the opportunity."

"How did you know, then? That he'd love me?" It couldn't just be some sort of luck that out of all the angels, Aziraphale was the one sent to Earth. Sure, it had just said he was the kindest, most caring angel, but most any angel could be kind and caring when it came to beings that weren't considered inherently evil. He remembered most of those in heaven, and they'd smite him on the spot.

"Because", it wiped a tear from his eye, and caressed his cheek in a soft, motherly way, "I knew that once he got to know you, Crowley, he would not be able to resist loving you as much as I do."

There was a silence. For a moment, all that could be heard was a sound that could have been the rustling of branches in the breeze, or cicadas in the summer, or a babbling brook. A peaceful sound.

"He's here for you, Crowley." It was no more than a whisper.

"Hm?" He looked up and out of trance he didn't realize he was in.

"He's worried about you. He can see you crying."

He didn't understand what that meant. He was about to ask, 'who'? But then he woke up.

"Crowley, dear? Are you all right?"

The demon was being lightly shaken by a soft hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and squinted up at the face above him.

"Yeh?" He didn't know why he wouldn't be.

The angel's face softened.

"I'm so sorry I woke you, I was just worried. Whatever was it you were dreaming of?"

Aziraphale wiped a tear away from the demon's eye, and Crowley realized he had been crying.

"I..." He stared off into the haze behind his field of vision "...Don't remember, really."

He thought it had been rather important. It must not have been, though, if he couldn't even remember.

"Hm, well, I suppose it doesn't matter." The angel hummed and ran a hand through Crowley's hair, gently rubbing the sides of his face. "How do you feel?"

"I feel..."  _ Loved _ , his subconscious finished for him. He felt loved. He didn't know why that fact seemed so important.

Instead of answering, he pulled Aziraphale into a hug and buried his face into his shoulder.

" 'Love you, Angel." He whispered into the fabric.

Aziraphale didn't hear him. He didn't answer back. But Crowley didn't need to hear him say it to know what it would be.

_ I love you, too. _


End file.
